I always dream of an empty landscape, so vast, with no definite edges. In the landscape, me, as tiny as a black dot, standing in the middle of the infinity. The machine inside me is pounding, quivering, the feeling comes still and tranquil.

The metaphysical dreams often reveal the truths in disorder. A metaphor, a symbol, a prophecy. Chaos that remains in serenity, an outlet to leap away. If dream is seen as an extension of reality, or reality is like a continuum of the dream, there will be many exits to this labyrinth that we all got lost in. What are we made of? When everything is merely a shadow of one another, suggesting a correlation through an immense web. The broken thoughts strangely put together by language, the faded memories that transcend the axis of time. Departed dreams. What are we made of? It is through the shadow we see and experience the impermanence of light; through death we could see life. Pounding heartbeat. Chopin. The scent of time. We are entangled by the lost past, blurred identity, unattainable longings, trapped in a formless cocoon. It is at war, a parade, thrilling, splendid, and catastrophic. What are we made of? On each new day, time is drawing us closer to an end, yet the origin, the shape of a black dot. Chasing a butterfly to the corner of the world, climbing up a ladder, it’s a vast empty landscape.